


why not run?

by onakissgodknows



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-25 22:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18172136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onakissgodknows/pseuds/onakissgodknows
Summary: Really, it’s Chilton’s fault, she thinks, chewing on her straw. If Chilton hadn’t planted those ideas about Gideon being the Chesapeake Ripper in the first place, then neither of them would be in this situation. Chilton decided to play God (psychopaths gravitate toward medical professions, indeed), and now here Freddie is – traumatized like some kind of victim.





	why not run?

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I started watching Hannibal in the year of our lord 2019, let alone actually wrote a fic about it, but this DEMANDED to be written.
> 
> This is set post-Rôti, so everything Gideon did to Chilton is mentioned but there's not explicit detail.

They don’t let her ride in the ambulance with Dr. Chilton, even though she protests and says she has to. She’s supposed to hold the oxygen mask.

At least, they tell her at the hospital she protested. Freddie doesn’t really remember much that happened after Gideon handed her the oxygen and split.

Nurses fuss over her, scrubbing blood off her hands and checking her for wounds even though she tells them the blood isn’t hers. One of the nurses shyly tells her she’s an obsessive TattleCrime reader and Freddie dully asks if she’d like a photo. The nurse blushes and stammers about not wanting to intrude, how this isn’t the best time for Freddie to meet a fan.

They tell her she’s in shock and they give her a blanket just like on TV. They want her in the hospital overnight – they have to run some tests, they tell her, make sure Gideon doesn’t have her drugged. Freddie feels drugged. It’s probably the shock.

Jack Crawford stations an FBI agent outside Freddie’s hospital room. Still, Freddie doesn’t sleep much, and when she does, she’s the one standing over Chilton holding a scalpel.

“Do it carefully, Ms. Lounds,” says Gideon, standing behind her. “We want him to survive.”

Freddie thinks about how she doesn’t have any medical training, but Gideon’s behind her so she cuts and blood spatters everywhere and Chilton screams and Freddie screams and Freddie wakes up screaming as nurses and FBI agents rush into the room.

She understands why psychopaths gravitate towards medical professions.

By seven a.m. Freddie is awake and dressed – not in her clothes, the FBI took those away as evidence, but in sweatpants and a t-shirt Crawford provided – kindly, he probably thought, but Freddie doesn’t feel like Freddie in these clothes. “I need to check myself out,” she tells the nurse, who looks startled.

“I think we’d prefer if you stayed for observation,” she says.

Freddie smiles. “The drug screenings came back negative, correct? I’m not physically harmed, am I?”

The nurse looks upset. “What you’ve been through – “

“I’ve survived worse.” She hasn’t, but it’s a good line. A thought occurs to her and she tilts her head. “Did Frederick Chilton make it through the night?”

The nurse glances around like she’s not sure she’s supposed to divulge. “He’s still in surgery.” She’s not very forthcoming; Freddie wonders how much danger the doctor is still in. If he’ll survive or if he’s slipping away through the surgeon’s fingers like Freddie felt him slipping through hers.

“I see.” Freddie smiles again, thinly. “Regardless, I’m checking out. Physically, I’m fine.”

The hospital reluctantly lets Freddie leave with a promise that she come back for a follow-up exam and a recommendation to seek therapy. As if Freddie isn’t all too aware of all the good therapy can do. No, Freddie won’t be speaking with the Hannibal Lecters or Alana Blooms of the world about what happened to her. Who do they think she is, Will Graham?

The FBI agent who’d been stationed outside her hospital room tries to insist on driving her home, but Freddie politely refuses. Gideon had his chance with her. She won’t let her guard down like that again.

Once home, Freddie turns on the shower as hot as she can stand and jumps in, letting it scald her, letting it burn away the grime and the dirt and the _smell_. She smells like the sterile, medical cleanliness of the sheets she’d slept on, but beneath that she smells like –

_Guts_ , whispers an awful voice in her head, and bile rises in her throat. She fights it back. She didn’t gag once _during_ , she’s not going to let memories alone get to her _after_.

God, the smell. She’s never going to be able to watch a medical drama on TV again, or any of those trashy E.R. reality shows. She remembers her high school science classes, the smell of formaldehyde. _At least the frogs and fetal pigs were dead when they cut them open_.

She dumps way too much shampoo into the palm of her hand and slathers it into her hair until there’s long trails of soap running down her face and back. Little flecks of brown-red hit the white tile of her shower floor and she recoils when she realizes she’s washing dried blood out of her hair.

Gideon knew what he was doing but blood does spatter.

Rinse it out. Rinse until it’s gone, scrub at your hands until it stops feeling like there’s still blood on them, like there’s blood under your fingernails and sinking into the lines of your palms – out. Out, damned spot.

Freddie rinses the shampoo away and then uses gobs of conditioner and stands under the water until it runs cold and she’s shivering. She rubs herself dry with a big fluffy towel and then wraps herself in a big fluffy robe. She rubs mousse onto her hands and runs them through her hair, then aims a diffuser at her curls until they’re dry, perfectly coiled and shiny just the way she likes them.

Still wrapped in the robe, Freddie retreats to her room and boots up her laptop. She sips a glass of water through a straw and poises her fingers over the keyboard. Her readers need to know.

_TattleCrime today brings you the exclusive story of an encounter with killer doctor Abel Gideon, from TattleCrime’s own intrepid reporter Fredericka Lounds –_

Freddie frowns. How is she supposed to tell this story? Looking back on what happened, her credibility is done for. She walked straight into Gideon’s trap. She’d let him trick her. Hoodwinked and bamboozled, exactly the kind of thing she prided herself on avoiding. She always saw through Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, didn’t she? She’s so used to being the cat she didn’t even notice when Gideon turned her into the mouse.

This is why they told her she ought to try therapy; she can hear Alana Bloom’s oh-so-gentle voice in her head, telling her she can’t blame herself, but Alana Bloom’s caring façade only thinly masks the contempt she has for Freddie. As much as she would pretend to care, Bloom’s life might be easier if Gideon had offed both Freddie and the doctor.

Really, it’s Chilton’s fault, she thinks, chewing on her straw. If Chilton hadn’t planted those ideas about Gideon being the Chesapeake Ripper in the first place, then neither of them would be in this situation. Chilton decided to play God ( _psychopaths gravitate toward medical professions, indeed_ ), and now here Freddie is – fucking _traumatized_ like some kind of _victim_! And all because Chilton couldn’t keep his mouth shut – because Freddie can’t resist a good story –

There it is. Freddie slams her laptop shut. She’s not going to get what she needs here. She tosses the robe aside and gets dressed in her normal clothes – a hot shower is all the self-indulgence she’ll allow herself today. There’s no time for self-pity when there are stories to write.

 

Freddie returns to the hospital, notepad in hand and camera hanging around her neck, and marches straight to the reception desk. The attendant looks up. “May I help you?”

“I’d like to see Frederick Chilton, if he’s out of surgery,” Freddie says, using the saccharine-sweet voice she always uses when she needs something.

“Are you family?” asks the attendant, flipping through notes.

“They brought me in with him last night.”

The attendant does a double take, frowning. “He came in an ambulance, he was the only patient who arrived in that – “

“Ms. Lounds!” says a booming, familiar voice. Freddie turns to see Jack Crawford striding toward her, extending a hand.

“Jack,” Freddie says, feigning relief and pasting on what she hopes is a friendly smile. She shakes his hand.

“I wanted to thank you,” says Jack, “and apologize for any hand the FBI might have played in what happened to you yesterday. We knew getting you directly involved in our cases was a risk, but – “

“Neither of us can help who reads my work,” Freddie cut in. “If Gideon’s a fan, then so be it. Hazards of the trade. I’ll be more diligent in the future.”

“In a lot of ways, Dr. Chilton is lucky you were there,” Jack says. “If it weren’t for you, I’m prepared to bet he’d have been dead by the time we found him.”

“How lucky for the both of us, then,” Freddie says, feeling almost as if she’s reciting lines. “I was actually hoping to see Dr. Chilton.”

“Dr. Chilton was very seriously injured,” pipes up the attendant. “At this time, the doctors would prefer if family only – “

“He doesn’t have any in the area,” Jack says. “And Ms. Lounds here is the reason he’s alive at all. I’m sure he wouldn’t say no to a brief visit. He’ll probably be as pleased to see you alive as you are to see him.”

The attendant doesn’t look particularly happy about it, but concedes. Jack takes Freddie by the arm and leads her down the hall. “All things considered,” he says, “he’s doing remarkably well.”

Freddie raised an eyebrow. “Gideon’s a gifted surgeon, whatever else you want to call him.”

Like Freddie’s last night, there’s a bored-looking FBI agent stationed outside Chilton’s hospital room. Jack knocks on the door and then pushes it open. “If something goes wrong,” he says to Freddie, “we’re right outside, and you can always call for a nurse.”

“I know my way around a hospital, Jack.” Freddie steps into the room and closes the door behind her.

There’s an IV hooked into Chilton’s arm. The heart monitor beats steadily. He’s plugged into so many tubes and wires Freddie almost feels like she’s stepped into a science fiction movie. She lifts her camera and snaps a photo.

Chilton’s eyes flutter open. “Oh.” His voice is hoarse; speaking sounds like a struggle.

“Dr. Chilton, it’s Freddie Lounds.” She grabs a chair and pulls it to the end of his bed, then sits down. “Do you remember anything of what happened yesterday?”

“Oh, I remember too much.” For a moment he seems to consider sitting up, then decides the effort is not worth it. “I was in surgery for over sixteen hours. Longer, if you consider what Gideon did surgery.”

“You lost an organ. Sounds like surgery to me.”

“Wonderful. I’m glad we’re on the same page, Ms. Lounds.” He winces. He’s clearly uncomfortable.

Freddie tilts her head. “How is the pain?”

“I’m on so many drugs I can barely feel a thing, but what I can feel isn’t good.” He fixes his eyes on her, surprisingly steady. “Why are you here?”

“I’m a journalist,” she says. “I could rely on my own memory, but eyewitness testimony isn’t the most reliable way to get to the truth. Aside from Gideon, you’re the only one who was in that room with me.”

Chilton’s mouth twists up almost like a smile, but it’s a grimace. “An odd choice of words, Ms. Lounds. I would have said _you_ were the one in the room with _me_.”

“We’re all the protagonists of our own stories, Doctor.” She furrows her brow. “And are you psychoanalyzing me? I’d better be careful or you’ll have me convinced I’m the Ripper.”

Chilton ignores her jab. “You’ve always been an interesting case.” He keeps his dark eyes trained on her. “What would you say of someone who walked into a hospital room and started photographing the patient?”

“I’d call her a journalist,” Freddie says.

Chilton lets out a short laugh. “And I’d say she’s someone who’s dealing with her trauma the only way she knows how, through her work, with little regard for how anyone else has suffered.”

“You can call it trauma or suffering if you want,” Freddie says shortly, “but the truth is we both deserve our stories told, Dr. Chilton. Now are you going to tell me your perspective or not?”

He laughs again. “You’d ask for an interview without allowing me to collect my thoughts first?”

She tilts her chin up. “When would you prefer? I’ll tell our stories, as we remember them, no embellishing or false accusations. I’ll talk about how Gideon killed that nurse, pretended you made him think he was the Ripper, how he kidnapped us both.”

Chilton regards her warily. “You’ll publish my words without twisting them?”

“Promise on my integrity as a journalist.”

“Not worth much, is it?” Chilton watches her for a moment, thinking. “All right, Ms. Lounds. Once I’m home, out of this blasted hospital bed, I’ll grant you an interview and we’ll tell the tale together. Your story, and mine. Between the two of us, we should be able to paint a pretty picture.”

Freddie nods, scribbling that down in her notepad. “It’s brave of you to come forward, Dr. Chilton.”

“You don’t have to use any of your lines on me.” He smirks. “If you’re nice enough, maybe I’ll even let you photograph my scars.”

Freddie shudders involuntarily. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Doctor. I know what they look like. I was there when you got them.” She stands. “I should let you rest. Thanks for your time.” She turns to go.

“Ms. Lounds.”

Freddie turns back. Chilton’s eyes are on her again.

“Why didn’t you run?” he asks.

Freddie tilts her head. “I don’t – “

“When Gideon made his run for it, you could have done the same.”

Freddie shakes her head. “He gave me the oxygen mask and told me to keep you alive.”

“Nothing was keeping you there. You were afraid. But you stayed and held the oxygen mask until the FBI found us.”

“What are you saying, Dr. Chilton?” Freddie asks sharply.

Chilton grimaces once again. “It’s a cliché, but they do say actions speak louder than words, and yours said a lot about you.”

“I did what anyone would have done,” Freddie says, keeping her voice clipped. “I’m not so much a monster I’d let someone die.”

Chilton closes his eyes. “You’d be surprised what many people are capable of.”

“No, I don’t think I would.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t. Anyway, think about that, Ms. Lounds. Why not run?”

Freddie casts out her thoughts until she settles on a resolution that satisfies her. “A good journalist would never leave a story unfinished.”

Chilton laughs, then winces in pain. “Very good. Cast yourself as a journalist doing her job, then. I will see you soon.”

Freddie considers, and the corner of her mouth turns up into a smile. She can’t help that she became the mouse to Gideon’s cat, but she can help what she did as the mouse. “Dr. Chilton, I think we have a good story to tell.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm watching this show for the Undead Freds. Everything else is secondary.
> 
> [writeblr](https://on-a-kiss-god-knows.tumblr.com/)/[personal blog](https://swiftjolras.tumblr.com/)


End file.
